When early morn walks forth in sober grey;
Then to my black ey’d maid I haste away,
When evening sits beneath her dusky bow’r,
And gently sighs away the silent hour;
The village bell alarms, away I go;
And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.
To that sweet village, where my black ey’d maid
Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,
I turn my eyes; and, pensive as I go,
Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.
Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,
Whisp’ring faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,
I walk the village round; if at her side
A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,
I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,
That made my love so high, and me so low.
O should she e’er prove false, his limbs I’d tear,
And throw all pity on the burning air;
I’d curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,
And then I’d die in peace, and be forgot.